The Bloggess

This is an email thread from my friend (who will be renamed Liz in case people want to throw things at her. But please don’t. She’s awesome):

Liz:  I read your post last week about the royal baby.  You are insane.  Babies are amazing.  They are the tiny miracles that spring from a woman’s womb.

me:  Well, so do tampons, but I’m not going to adopt one and send it to college.

Liz:  Ew.  Also, tampons don’t go in your womb.  If you’ve hit the womb you’ve gone too far.

me:  You sound like google maps.  But for tampons.

Liz:  And you’re changing the subject.  A woman MAKES a human being.  That’s a miracle.

me: We also make poop and snot and up to 4 pints of saliva a day.  It’s not all cookie-cutter babies, Liz.  We’re not easy-bake ovens, for God’s sakes.

Liz: And that’s another thing.  You could be a little nicer to God.

me:  God supposedly made me this way so I’m fairly certain he’s not surprised.  I don’t blame him when shit goes wrong and he doesn’t punish me for making jokes that he’s probably forwarding in heaven.  If they have forwarded emails in heaven.  Which I hope they don’t.

Liz: You’re not supposed to blame God for anything.  If bad things happen it’s probably because he’s testing you.  “God sometimes takes us into troubled waters not to drown us, but to cleanse us.” 

me:  Yeah, but sometimes he drowns us.  That “sometimes” is a pretty fucking big loophole.

Liz:  GOD DOESN’T DROWN PEOPLE.

me:  Well someone’s drowning them, Liz.  It’s not like people float.  Except for Jesus, apparently.  Jesus he gave special, invisible water-wings.  And I’m pretty sure that’s called “nepotism.”

Liz:  I’m going to hell just for having this conversation.

me:  No.  You are doing God’s work.  And He would be proud.

Liz:  THANK YOU.

me:  …because he’s probably very busy drowning people right now and he needs you to cover for him while he’s busy.

Liz:  DO NOT MAKE ME LAUGH AT GOD DROWNING PEOPLE.

me:  I can’t help it, Liz.  That’s free will.  Besides, maybe I’m just a test.  God is testing you.  With me.

Liz:  And I think I’m failing miserably.

me:  Nah.  You ‘re at least getting a C.  You are very patient and understanding and a good example of what a Christian should be like.  Good work.  Love, Satan.

Liz:  Satan?

me:  Just kidding.  It’s me.  I was testing you again and you passed.  I’m like God, but I grade you on a bell curve.  And I don’t drown people.  Usually.  I guess it depends on who they are.

Liz:  You wouldn’t drown anyone.  And God doesn’t either.

me:  I’d drown Hitler.  I’m pretty sure I’d get a pass on that one.  Even God would be like “High-five, peaches.”

Liz:  Peaches?

me:  In my mind, God calls me “Peaches.”  He also just looks like a big ball of light in my mind and so it’s weird that he’d offer me a high-five since he doesn’t have any hands.  Way to leave me hanging, God.

Liz:  We should probably not talk about religion anymore.

me:  It’s amazing how often I get that.

Today Time Magazine came out with its list of Best Blogs of the year and somehow this blog was on it.  I can only assume that someone at Time Magazine was very drunk.  In their defense, they did begin the article with: “For years now, pundits have been knowingly declaring that blogging is dead, rendered irrelevant by alternative means of personal publishing such as Facebook and Twitter.”  And that makes more sense because I pretty much only become successful at stuff right around the time that it becomes completely archaic and obsolete.  In related news, I’m getting slightly less shitty at hacky-sack, and my pog collection is fucking stunning.  

It is actually very nice to be recognized by Time and I really do appreciate it, but I feel like I should just leave a small disclaimer here for people who find this blog for the first time:

“Hello.  This blog is totally overrated and seldom makes sense.  It is ridiculous, offensive, and vaguely cult-ish, but in a good way.  If you like weirdness, taxidermied ostriches, cat pictures, profanity, and jokes about dysentery then you are in the right place.  Introduce yourself, or lurk.  The comments are almost always better than the posts, and if you leave a nasty comment I will most likely completely agree with you, or I will edit your comment so that it’s full of cringe-worthy double-negatives and spelling errors.  That way both of us will feel like assholes and balance will be restored to the Force.

Humping you furiously, Jenny”

For those of you who are already long-standing members of this ridiculous community? Congratulations.  Everyone familiar with this blog knows it’s a team effort and that means that you just got recognized by Time Magazine for creating something awesome (and possibly even more useless and unnecessary than it ever was to begin with).  Regardless, this is a big deal, as the best celebrations are for useless and unnecessary things.  Case in point:  I have no idea where my college degree or social security card are, but the certificate I got from the Mayor proclaiming me a Czar of Texas so that I could beat NASA and bring a donkey to an award show is hanging in a place of honor in my office.

Priorities.  

I have them.

Sometimes people send me interview questions and then I totally fuck up and forget to do them and so tonight I’m going to spend the next hour answering any questions in my comment section until you get bored or until my ADD meds wear off.  (I’ll answer them in the comment so refresh to see the answers.)

Feel free to use anything on this post if you one day need interview questions answered for some journalism class you’re in.  This totally counts.  How do I know this?  Because I have a Bachelor of Journalism degree.  And that’s your first answer.  It’s very boring and I blame whoever asked it.  They are horrible at interview questions.

PS.  The Bachelor of Journalism degree is often referred to as the “B.J. degree.”  This is not a joke.  It was called that, completely unironically, by the head of our department, Richard Seaman.

Dick Seaman gave me a B.J. degree.

PPS. Huh.  Never mind.  That was a good question after all.  Carry on.

My friend at geekologie just pointed out that now ostriches are flying (which made me happy for them) but then he clarified that they’re only flying if they’re taxidermied and attached to helicopters (which made sort of scared for humanity.)  Granted, it’s kind of awesome in an inspirational “I believe I can fly” sort of way, but it’s also disconcerting because most of us can’t fly a regular remote-controlled helicopter without crashing it, much less lots of remote controlled helicopters carrying a super-unstable, giant dead ostrich, and if things follow the way they do in my house that ostrich is going to end up stranded on the roof with a bunch of old frisbees, best case scenario.  Worst case scenario?  It crashes into a neighbor’s yard and impales an unsuspecting hugging couple, like some sort of fluffy, deadly, cupid’s arrow made of ostrich.  And then neighbors will call 911 to explain that they’re stuck together because they’ve been impaled by a flying dead ostrich and the people who work at 911 will be all “STOP CALLING HERE, DRUNKIE” because no one is taking that shit seriously.

At the very least, someone is going to lose an eye.  Think your actions through, ostrich-fliers.

Today I picked up my generic xanax but then I noticed the note on the bottle explaining that they’d replaced the drug I usually get, but with exactly the same drug.